


Étude: String Poetic

by xlydiadeetz



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Charcy, Classical Music, Damen is a sweetheart, Fluff, High School Arc, I swear to God, Laurent is a baby, M/M, No Angst, Violinist!Laurent, a hundred percent fluff, guaranteed fluff, no pain, only fluff, Étude special chapter, Étude spin off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-31 00:58:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10888551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xlydiadeetz/pseuds/xlydiadeetz
Summary: Étude's special Spring chapterAKA Auguste takes the gang to the park and Laurent and Damen play hide and seek.





	Étude: String Poetic

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Étude](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7746652) by [xlydiadeetz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xlydiadeetz/pseuds/xlydiadeetz). 



> Hello~  
> Yes, I know I disappeared.  
> Yes, I know I haven't updated the main story in a month.  
> Yes, I know this is very short and nothing actually significant.  
> But,  
> It's fluff, my friends. And I thought you'd enjoy it all the same.  
> I've been suffering the most horrible writer's block in the whole planet, so I'm super content to have finished this finally. The regular chapter is halfway ready, I'll make sure to finish it and post it at some point next week.  
> Thanks for everything you do, all the comments and messages and the support.<3  
> Kudos to Ellen, for being the most amazing beta on the planet. 
> 
> P.S. Happy Nine Months, Étude!  
> P.S. 2. I highly recommend listening to [this](https://open.spotify.com/track/1D5AWyG2oOk42eQFdLN1bK) while reading the chapter.  
> P.S. This is set during the high school arc, more specifically after the events of Chapter 13 / TAOTH Part IV.

_What is music?_

The dictionary, oh so loyal and wise, defines the word music with another set of words, perfectly arranged to give literary meaning to something that cannot be explained in anything that isn’t the colliding of all the five senses in our body at the same time.

By that definition, music could be no more than a pleasant, agreeable sound. By definition two, which is a little bit more complex, possibly reserved to those with enough vocabulary and syntaxes experience to even try to make sense of it all, music was _“the science or art of ordering tones or sounds in succession, in combination, and in temporal relationships to produce a composition having unity and continuity.”_

And period.

But was that enough? Was that even near enough of a description to the most unique _feeling_ he had yet to encounter? Just an arrangement of sounds with a pretty melody or a casual set of notes that produced harmony?

But what was it really, music? What was this thing that made him both incredibly happy and incredibly sad? What is it, and why did it fill him with uncontainable excitement and excruciating pain?

And why, for God’s sake, why did he like it? Why was he devoting his life to it? What had happened? And why were there people that couldn’t understand him?

Perhaps at some point he had known, he had—understood, somehow. But the answer had escaped him. It was gone, and he couldn’t find it again. Because it was all so very contradictory; he was in pain when he played but he was in a much more incredible pain if he didn’t.

And he hated the fact that Auguste loved it so much, but at the same time it brought him so much joy to see his brother’s passion. It was all just too confusing.

Why did he play? Was there a reason, other than mere routine and years wasted on extensive practice, for him to pick up his violin every day, no fault, and play?

Why was he in the orchestra? Why was it so important? Did it matter if he dropped it—left it, randomly, just because? Would it change anything?

Would he understand?

In reality, Laurent wasn’t sure what he was looking for. Maybe, he thought, if he found the true meaning of music, he would be able to understand himself and what he wanted. To know if he was more similar or, on the contrary, way more different from Auguste than he thought.

Being a musician was a strange thing. His world was tainted, all the time, by sounds. And he couldn’t understand why it was like that.

Why it was that the world only made sense to him when there were sounds—melodies, around him.

Laurent frowned, with his eyes closed, at the intensity of the burning star above him. Shining, pretentiously, in the universe, letting him live to over think about all these things. He frowned, and exhaled through his nose, and gripped the grass with his fingers. Softly, feeling the texture; it was cold, wet.

It was true that May came with the rain.

But between the rainy, gloomy days, there were always unpredictable and stunning bright, sunny days like this one. With the birds chirping and bees flying around, ladybugs posing on windows and the flowers that had survived the flooding of the previous days adorning the landscape with richer colours.

It was a Sunday and the sky that had been grey the previous day had turned into a beautiful blue. The air wasn’t humid; rather fresh. And the grass looked greener that he’d ever seen it, small daisies poking from it.

It was such a rare thing to have good weather in the month of his birthday that he was almost happy about it. Even though he did enjoy rainy days staying in and reading, more than he’d enjoy any hot, summer day, soon he grew tired of the school mornings and getting his feet wet –no matter how much he tried not to step on any puddle. It was already very depressing having to wake up early to go to school, but the fog and the cold breeze waiting for him outside of the shower surely didn’t make it any easier.

Perhaps there was a reason, after all, for May to be the month he had been born in. Perhaps it was that complexity, those oxymoron feelings over things like the weather. Over things like himself, and music.  He was like May and spring. As cold as it was warm, as grey as it was sunny. Flourishing and flooding.

When it rained, he couldn’t sit under his tree. Recess in Charcy became a monotone visit to the library, or eating his lunch in the classroom with everyone else. Everyone else being people in his class, like Jord --who unfortunately spent a major amount of time talking with Aimeric—and Lazar, Jord’s friend, whom Laurent knew from the Orchestra for he was a pretty advanced cellist.

Sometimes they’d engage in interesting conversations, most of the time related to music, but some other days Laurent wasn’t up to the whole ranting about wanting to fuck Pallas from the regular classes.

It was just not his thing, and he’d find himself missing his conversations with—

Damen.

Being in the regular department, however, meant that he was in another building. And that fact shouldn’t bother Laurent as much as it did. After the kiss they hadn’t had much time to see each other, and with every passing day the voice inside his head grew louder.

_I want to see him._

_I want to—kiss him again._

Unconsciously, he felt his cheeks turning red and he squeezed them lightly.

That was likely one of the reasons why Laurent had agreed to come to the park along with his brother and the rest. The other reasons had to do with the bag full of snacks and the violin resting beside him.

Supposedly, Auguste had taken them all there seeking inspiration for his song; _The Anthem of the Heart_. It wasn’t that the idea bothered him, even though he pretended otherwise.  In fact, he loved the park and helping his brother had never annoyed him.  On normal circumstances, he would probably be as enthusiastic as Auguste.

The clouds of mosquitoes and the sun attempting to roast him alive were another story.

“You know,” Auguste said while poking him on the stomach, “You’re going to burn, little brother.”

Laurent didn’t even bother to open his eyes, “And whose fault is that?”

“Did you put on sunscreen?” Auguste asked, this time poking him on the forehead.

“It’s spring, Auguste.”

In a threatening voice, “Don’t come running to me afterwards.”

Laurent scoffed, “As if.”

“Are you going to sunbathe all day long?”

“It’s not like you’re doing any different.”

“Of course I am,” said Auguste, the hint of small laughter in his voice, “I’m annoying you.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be working or something?” Laurent asked, and hit the hand of his brother—still poking him on the head—away.

“Aren’t you supposed to be helping me?”

Sighing, Laurent opened his eyes and stared into a smiling Auguste above him. He had just cut his hair due to Charcy’s regulations, and yet a few golden strands managed to fall on his forehead. He looked the way he did when they were kids, and it made Laurent’s heart fill with fondness, for some strange reason.

“Welcome back, Lo,” Auguste said, and then giggled, “What’s with that murderous look?”

“Nothing, nothing at all,” Laurent sat up from the grass and rolled onto the blanket they had brought but that didn’t particularly use. “Where are the others?” he asked, looking around. The other three were out of sight.

Pointing to the right, “Playing,” his brother replied, “With Jord’s Frisbee.”

They were, indeed, throwing the Frisbee back and forth between the three of them, Jord, Nikandros and Damen. And he couldn’t help but linger a little longer on him, on the way his muscles contracted with every movement, and how he ran around while laughing and yelling and being completely charming, even though he was sweating like a pig on the field.

_Fuck._

“I’m” Laurent said, and then swallowed, regaining control of his own mind, “surprised you’re not there.”

“I wanted to ask you if you wanted to join, first.”

Giving him a look, Laurent pushed his sunglasses onto his face and said, “No, thank you.”

Auguste shrugged before leaning over again and kissing his little brother on the forehead, “Suit yourself, then.”

Laurent watched Auguste stand up and jog away. He waited until they were all too into the game to notice his absence; once Nikandros had thrown the Frisbee directly to Auguste’s face, he carefully grabbed his violin case and stood up. Then, he walked away in the opposite direction of the way they came from, and wandered into the park.

There was a hidden gazebo on top of a set of stairs, a bit separated from the areas with all the people, and he thought it was a nice place to hide. It was made with dark wood, adorned with different kind of flowers.

Laurent stood in the middle and opened his violin case, taking out the instrument gently and opening his book of compositions on the small bench.  He smiled, softly, and felt his violinist heart sway with anticipation.

_Eloise, hello._

He felt the breeze, lifting up his cotton shirt and he shivered against it. Posing the violin on his shoulder, recalling the usual pain of the position, he closed his eyes and wondered again.

_What is music?_

 

 

***

Being Damen was like being inside a never-ending game of hide and seek.

Not because he was hiding, but because he was always the one seeking others. Chasing the ones who ran away. Or more specifically, the one who ran away.

In this universe, The One was a sixteen years old boy with a brilliant mind masterfully disguised with waves of soft blonde hair, and now, more recently, a blue strand adorning it all. Short, fiercely stubborn with an awful temperament and the ability to slay everyone with his tongue.

Laurent.

Where had he gone this time? One minute ago he was there, standing in front of Damen, and the second he blinked he lost him in between the maze of people walking through the park.

That was the thing with Laurent; you couldn't even close your eyes. Otherwise, he was gone and you were left alone wondering how it was possible to lose track of him in the fraction of a millisecond. He liked to hide, and he did that well.

Sometimes, it was as if Damen was seeing him in a dream. A perfect hallucination of his most endeared wishes. There for a minute and then vanished as soon as he grew conscious of the state of his reality.

Unfortunately for him, Damen was good at playing this game.

By now, he had years of experience in Laurent's hide and seek. It wasn't like the normal game, where usually hiders ran away from the seeker, but rather the opposite. To find Laurent, it depended on the fact whether he wished to be found or not. It was easier if he was expecting you to catch up with him, but usually, he didn't expect anyone to actually go look for him.

Once you did find him, though, approaching him was a task to be done carefully and slowly, like reaching a stray cat. The seeker hiding from the hider.

Damen wandered around the park, exploring the less populated spots.  He passed next to the fountains where kids splashed water all around, and the couples enjoying picnics.

_Where are you, Vicomte?_

Deep inside, Damen had hoped that when Auguste invited them all to the park, he would be lucky enough to find some time to spend with Laurent alone. Ever since his birthday, they hadn’t been able to. And he missed it, dearly.

Not precisely the kisses, although they had a lot to do. But their conversations, mostly. The way they connected so easily and so profoundly and precisely. Like two puzzle pieces, finally fitting the way they’re supposed to fit.

He missed Laurent’s violinist hands, locking up with his. Like if for the numbered fractions of time they spent intertwining their fingers, Damen was music, too.

Laurent made him feel as though he was music, pure and loud and vibrant. And it was such a feeling, like electricity replacing his veins. There was no one else in the world that could make him feel like he could soar up in the skies just with one single melody. He forgot he was someone, he forgot he was Damen and instead felt like,

Music.

Someone was playing music.

He stopped dead on his feet and looked around, trying to bring his ears to find the sound again, lost in between the maze of noises.

It was faint and distant, but it was there.  A violin.

Damen started running towards the sound, even though he wasn’t sure in what direction it was coming from, until he reached a gazebo.

And there he was, the blonde hair contrasting with the dark wooden colour of his instrument. With his eyes closed and a shy smile on his face. Laurent was playing as if the world around him didn’t exist. No, more like he played and he made it feel as if the world around them was nothing of importance.

Moving around freely, it looked like a dance, between him as the violin he was so gracefully, carefully holding between his fingers. Laurent played with delicacy, and it was such a different piece from the ones Damen was used to hear him play, that it send shivers to his back that continued all through his body.

Soft, and yet not sad. Not quite melancholic, but not precisely upbeat. It was dreamy – hopeful. And selfishly comforting; he was playing for himself and no one else.

Laurent wasn’t there, again. He was…in his own world. And Damen was seeing it, finally. He was listening to a part of Laurent he thought he’d never find; beautiful and private, he knew he was intruding but he couldn’t leave. He couldn’t walk away or even turn his eyes somewhere else.

The pace of the music increased and Damen felt his heart accelerating with it. Driven by his own emotions, unconsciously or not, Laurent seemed to play stronger than intended and Damen felt himself gasp.

It was all too much.

He wanted to say something, but he couldn’t. He forgot how to. So, he walked up the small stairs of the gazebo and stepped carefully around Laurent. His eyes were still closed, but his pose relaxed and he was back to playing the notes subtly.

Damen followed his movements, and he wanted more than anything to interrupt him and kiss him senseless. For a second, he imagined himself doing so. Grabbing Laurent’s face softly until he opened his eyes, and kissing him, over and over again until he was close to imitating the feeling of Laurent’s music.

It was so overwhelming.

Feeling his presence, Laurent turned towards him, but he didn’t stop or even opened his eyes. He kept playing, although the shy smile widened into one of those who has understood a private joke.

This was their world.

Damen smiled, understanding as well, and they continued their game. Their dance. Like in a ballroom, swaying around each other to the pace of Laurent’s music.

By the time he finished playing, they were standing in front of each other. Damen watching his slender fingers drew the last note on the violin, and his shoulder flexing and contracting with the prolonged movement of the bow, ending the piece.

Laurent took the violin off his shoulder and opened his eyes. Glimmering blue greeting Damen’s curious, love-induced dark ones.

Smiling brightly, with his heart about to burst into flames, he said, “I found you, Vicomte.”

 

 

***

“You’re late,” Laurent said in response, his smile reflecting Damen’s.

It was so hard not to smile that he couldn’t; he just couldn’t bring himself to force his lips downwards.

He felt so happy. So happy, that he did not know what to do with it.

Damen reached over to touch his cheek, warm knuckles against his skin. He leaned towards it, allowing himself the indulgence. Then, carefully, Damen brushed his blue strand off his face.

“I thought this was against Charcy’s regulations.”

“It is,” Laurent said.

“Looks nice on you,” Damen said.

“I know.”

They smiled. Laurent passed the bow from one hand to the other, and then, ignoring the jumping of his heart, he held up his free hand.

Damen pressed his palm against his, widening the fingers at the same time Laurent did. And then, finally, intertwining them.

They smiled, brighter.

Pulling him closer, staring curiously at his hand, Damen pointed out, “Your nails are golden.”

He felt his cheeks flushing a little, “Yes,” he said, and then, “I was trying it out at the store.” It was a shame the violin strings had chipped the colour, but he didn’t mention it.  

Damen’s eyes returned to his face, and then he rubbed his palm with his thumb before kissing it, “Your Highness.” He said, and Laurent laughed softly, “You played beautifully, enchantingly.”

“Thank you,” he whispered.

They were close, too close, once more. And the wind blew towards them, raising the leaves and the music sheets of his composing book.

“Shit,” he said, pulling away to pick them up. But the wind blew again, stronger, taking away the papers he was about trying to grab.

“I got it,” Damen said, and caught it in time before the wind took it. Looking down at it, he asked, “Is this what you were playing?”

Laurent swallowed, putting his violin down on the case and arranging the stack of papers again, “Yes.”

“What’s the name?”

“I—haven’t chosen one yet.” He admitted.

Damen’s eyes were shining, “You wrote this?”

He nodded.

“For real? You wrote—this?”

He nodded, again. It was starting to become embarrassing.

“I,” Lost for words, “I didn’t know you composed too.”

“I—I don’t,” Laurent said, flushing, “I was just messing around with the notes.”

“Laurent,” and the way he pronounced his name was so charming that for a few seconds, he forgot how to breathe and he told himself he should stop it already with the overwhelming waves of affection, “It sounded just like…you.”

Laurent asked, “What do you mean?”

“If you were a song,” Damen said, “If you were music.”

His heart hurt, his stomach dropped. The question repeated inside his head.

_What is music?_

Suddenly, his eyes filled with tears.

Could that be the answer, then?

Could he be both, musician and music?

“That’s how you make me feel you know,” Damen whispered, leaning down to make their foreheads touch. Laurent closed his eyes in a reflex, and their noses found each other.

“How?” he whispered

“Like if I’m music.”

“So we’re both music, then?”

Slowly, Damen brushed the blue strand behind his ear and kissed him sweetly, “We are.”

It didn’t make sense, but at the same time, it was the answer he needed all along. And the string poetic written on his music sheets was nothing but the affirmation of that single truth Damen had found.

Laurent pulled away first, opening his eyes slightly to see Damen. To remember the way he looked when he kissed him. The reflection of his most beautiful dreams.

His beloved music, the songs he never let anyone hear.

His beloved Damen.

Laurent kissed him again, feeling the small weight of the music box key hanging from his neck.

Whispering, “May I have this dance, Your Highness?”

 

 

***

And they were dancing, and they were laughing, and they were running around the gazebo, and the park, blowing bubbles and convincing themselves and each other that the rest of the world didn’t matter.

They had their own.

And the wind was rising, and things were going to change. But they didn’t know yet.

On the music sheet, in his neat, cursive handwriting, Laurent wrote a title.

_When we were music_

_For solo violin._


End file.
